SINS OF THE SUPERNATURAL
by Erullisse
Summary: LOTR TRUEBLOOD HELLBOYII Crossover - It's every species for itself when the Fairies call for help, the Elves step out of the shadows, and the Vamps don't back down an inch, leaving two girls with a chance at immortality that forces them to choose between two worlds and two men . . . and decide what price they're willing to pay to keep the one they love.


**SINS ****is an ALTERNATE UNIVERSE TRIPLE-CROSSOVER** between the Southern Vampire Mysteries and the Lord of the Rings with a heaping dose of Nuada, the smoking hot elf from Hellboy II included just because I could. Elves – Fairies – I'm a fey freak, what can I say? Setting is ~2 years after SVM Book 8 "From Dead to Worse" and is rated for lots of language, graphic violence, torture, character death, & forced mental and physical situations. It also contains scenes during which you might very well laugh your ass off and fall out of that comfy computer chair - so please - stretch out on the southern sands of my imagination, and enjoy! Just consider yourself forewarned: EVERYTHING here is the farthest thing from canon compliant imaginable, so if you don't appreciate people playing with your elves pointy little ears with wild abandon, turn back now.

**Beta by: ****Mrstulipmn & KASEY1921 with special thanks to GaijinVamp**

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**SINS OF THE SUPERNATURAL**

**Two Worlds, One Choice II – The Final Edition**

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"_You pointy eared piece of possum ass!" Grace screamed. "I am done with every damn one of you. Do you hear me? Done!"_

**"**_Erulissë, saes please," Nuada pleaded. "You must trust me to help you." _

"_Trust?" she snapped with the sarcasm only a true southerner could muster. "Ya'll have lied to me from the very first day, but Niall Brigant will not win. He will never turn me into a pureblood fey!" _

_Nuada's brilliant emerald eyes shadowed, his blond head bowed beneath the weight of her words. "Is no one in this room who does not live with their regrets," he said with far more meaning than just the simple sentence, "but in his own way, your great-grandfather does love you. Loves you so much, he has offered you the gift of eternal life."_

"_People who love each other, don't try to make them change," Grace gave back with unwavering determination. "And what he's done is no better than what his son did when he tried to kill me. Sneaking me and Sookie to that damn secret fairy island while we slept. Shoving pieces of his two dead sons down our throats in some sick attempt to fix two mortals he thinks are broken just because of the blood that's in our veins!"_

_"__Erulissë, __please." Instinctively, Nuada reached for her. Desperate. Unwilling to let her go. To see her life risked by such horrid circumstance. Yet even as he stepped forward, he felt himself pushed back by an invisible wall. Not fairy fire. Nothing he could so effortlessly overcome. No, this was pure mage magic. As strong as her grandmother. Then ten times stronger still. _

"_Don't look so surprised," Grace slid out under her breath. "Or did you really think I'd forgotten that half of me? That I would betray the woman who burned to death to keep me alive, while the fairies ignored our screams for help?" She took a solid step closer. "My soul is not for sale."_

_Nuada could not help the hint of smile. "Then tell Niall Brigant to burn in hell and do not ever think of him again. As you have said so many times yourself – there is always another option."_

_The cigarette died with a bright red flare, smoke curling in the air when she blew it through her nose. Her suspicion was obvious – as was the burning hope he told the truth. "Then I suggest you start talking and fast, because the ones we have right now aren't worth a shit in the end, and Sookie will never give Eric up. She'll die right there in his arms with every one of you watching and smile while he drains her dry, because the life of a fairy is not what she wants. She'll have him turn her vampire first."_

_Every eye snapped to the fresh fang marks in her neck, slowly sliding to the thigh where they'd watched Eric Northman drain her before._

"_That choice is hers to make," Lord Elrond said as he came to his feet. "It is for the both of you, and always should have been. But if you think to win this war, then you need to come with us. The elves are your only chance against my brother."_

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**Chapter 1 - The Dead Will Rise **

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**Bon Temps, Louisiana – Some Six Months Earlier**

Sookie's hand slid down ever so slowly, twisting slightly just the way Eric liked it. Her fingers slipped up the smooth shaft. It was slick and damp. She flicked her thumb over the opening and a drop of moisture trickled across her skin . . . so cool, so inviting. It felt like heaven and she licked her lips, imagining what it would be like to replace her fingers with her tongue. To lick every single glistening bead of . . .

"Miss?"

"Huh?"

_Holy Moses on a moped!_ Sookie slapped the beer on the table with a basket of fries, trying to ignore the crimson flying across her cheeks. What the hell was wrong with her? She was standing in the middle of Merlotte's giving a Heineken a hand job!

"You may bring me another," came a voice like liquid sin. "You seem to particularly like that one."

His raven eyebrows slanted in amusement, making Sookie want to crawl under the table and die of embarrassment. She might have bolted if those hypnotic silver eyes had allowed it. A molten mercury gaze shackled her in place instead; his lingering appraisal so hot she went damp between her legs.

Licking sinfully soft lips, he took her right off the air; inhaling with such pleasure it pulled a low, shivery moan from her throat. Her body arched to the touch of an unseen hand until her head tilted back to maintain eye contact, though she wasn't even aware the man had stood up. She grabbed his forearm before he could walk away._ "Are—are you leaving?" _

The stammering protest was not spoken aloud, yet he answered just the same. "Mmmmm . . . you desire me to stay, _Mailëa_?" **he said, **leaning closer to tuck a stray curl of blonde hair behind her ear before tracing a fiery path between her breasts with a possessiveness that would have sent Eric Northman into a furor. "Say it," he whispered. A serpent's coaxing plea. Tempting. Commanding. "Say _please_ you wish to see me again."

"Please," instantly slid from her mouth, her fingers already reaching for that long black hair. It fell to his waist like an endless stretch of midnight, licking her skin with promises of unspeakable pleasures in the deep of the night when she shoved her hands in deep. His shirt melted to dust, deep bronze skin welcoming her touch with sparks of brilliant blue fire as she traced the swath of foreign symbols carved across his chest. Every thought disappeared to the intoxicating coil of muscles under hard, sleek skin. He was so damn beautiful. Perfect. Like some dark, conquering god.

"Prince," he whispered in a voice that seemed to speak to some secret part of her soul. "And very soon, your king." His teeth slid down the curve of her neck. "Will you like that, little one? Enjoy calling me master?"

Sookie had never wanted to do anything more. She shivered. Trembled. Silently begged for the taste of that mouth. He looked at her like there was no other woman in the world. Made her feel him in every cell of her body until her brain seized when he pressed a moist kiss to her forehead; body boneless as goosebumps erupted from her toes to her nose. She was still staring into space when Sam tapped her on the shoulder. "You working or daydreaming?"

Sookie jumped like she'd been doused in ice water. "Huh?"

"Everything alright with you, cher? Cause you just brought a beer and fries to an empty table."

Sam's voice was barely a whisper, and Sookie's hands landed on her hips as she glanced around confused. "Sam, that's not funny! You're just saying that because that man . . ." Blushing bright red, she glanced around. "Where'd he go? Did he leave? The man with the gorgeous, dark hair."

Sam nervously shoved his hands into his jeans pockets and frowned. There hadn't been anyone sitting at that table all afternoon, and now people were staring. "Listen, why don't you take the rest of the afternoon off? Didn't I hear you tell Arlene you've got a date with Eric tonight? Go take a nap, or go shopping and get yourself a new outfit. I'll see you tomorrow. Ok?"

Not ok. Not ok at all. This was an OSM of monumental proportions – an Oh Shit Moment – and one she'd been trapped in for the last three days. Tolerating strong mental images and hearing other people's thoughts was a daily inconvenience because she was a telepath, but the wild feelings crashing over her were something entirely different. A strange feeling nagged at the far reaches of her mind she couldn't quite grasp, as if something very powerful was drawing closer and closer with every minute that ticked past. Needing her. Reaching for her.

Sookie threw a wave at Arlene and ran for the parking lot.

The last rays of a dying September sun faded to the shine of stars through the tops of towering pines as her old Chevy headed toward Shreveport, so Eric would be up. A few drops of his blood and a few hours in his arms, and she'd be good as new. Better in fact. So she jacked up the radio, staring at the faint red mark on her forehead as she washed down two Tylenol with a Diet Coke and waited for the traffic light to turn. A verdant glow washed over the dash, yet suddenly she could not move the finger on the blinker. Her heart said go to Eric's house. Her gut demanded she head out toward the southern swamps.

_Which way?_

A car horn blared behind her, but she leaned her spinning head against the steering wheel until the light turned red again. A thousand invisible ants crawled over her skin at the very idea of disobeying that soft murmur whispering in her ear, but when the signal switched again, she was ready. Skipping the blinker she hit the gas, tires squealing as she threw up every mental block she had and shoved away the strange beckoning urges, fighting to clear her mind. She would go to Fangtasia. Eric was already there. Surely, the vampire would have some answers.

The girl who'd just pulled into the back parking lot hoped he had some, too.

Thursday nights were busy at the premier vampire bar of Louisiana. People came and went at a rapid pace - humans, vampires, werewolves. Some staggered or ambled out while others wandered in, pausing to light a cigarette, adjust lipstick, or chat with friends as they made their way to the entrance. Above them, red lips opened and closed; sharp white canines flashing against a glowing blood drop hung precariously from one corner.

Grace stared up at the neon Fangtasia sign and cussed - as much about the ten-thousand dollars from her trust fund locked in the console as the two bribing telephone conversations it took to set up this stupid meeting. Note to lowly humans everywhere: Eric Northman does not turn people for a fee, so said Pam's desert dry drawl. Nope, but he'd damn sure answer questions if the price was right.

Chipped, coral-tipped fingers jabbing the stereo controls like they should suffer for her desperation, Grace threw the truck in park; tricked-out Escalade now safely stalking the center of the bar's back graveled lot as she sucked the last puff from a cigarette then flicked it through the crack of a blacked-out window. Like Aunt Neen always said: Money Talks and Bullshit Walks. Besides, how did one put a price on finding out who they were?

Reverently touching the runestone hanging from her rearview mirror, she watched it throw rainbows over the wild roses wilting on the dash. The black cloud of her first five years had never invaded the sun-kissed South Carolina island she called home, yet even after two decades away they smelled the same. She'd seen the burn marks sprawled across the brick. Stood in the long-lost garden where her grandmother Mikita raised the spices and herbs for her spells – and still she had no damn idea when her own birthday was. Eighteen hours driving, three days digging through courthouse archives and no less than seventy-five miles of rutted red clay roads – only to end up with what? To be taunted by a "No Trespassing" sign dangling off a half-dead oak? Smother in the humid heat of a Louisiana autumn evening knowing some Los Angeles corporation owned the sacred ground where her family had died?

_Stupid shit! _

Choking back the nightmares that repeated ad nauseam every night, Grace forced herself to take a deep, calming breath; focused on the smell of salt air lingering in the truck. "_Dagaz, Inguz,"_ she murmured. Clarity and peace. The rune incantations had never offered her the same serenity or direction as they did her mother and grandmother, but somehow the sound of them was comforting. Besides – there was _always_ another option.

Red digital time display noting she was ten minutes early, Grace stuffed her bare feet into their well-worn flip-flops, and gave the giant blond Viking on the front of the brochure one more look. Under any other circumstance, she wouldn't have been caught dead visiting a vampire bar – no pun intended – but things had changed dramatically in the years since the Japanese created True Blood, a synthetic bottled blood substitute. It had been like a bad dream the night the living dead appeared on national television, demanding their rightful place alongside humans as they announced their existence to the world, but she'd already seen the things that went bump in the night, and Eric Northman just so happened to be the oldest thing that talked in this state.

Yeah, she probably needed her head checked, but one stubborn little southerner who didn't know how to take "no" as an answer was about to do a face-to-fang with the 1000-year-old Vampire Sheriff of Louisiana Area 5 and owner of The Bar with Bite, because mages made it a point to never be found, fairies didn't exactly jump out of the sky when you asked, and she wasn't stupid enough to believe every one of them didn't know all about the others. Besides, a part-fairy, part-mage, part-human didn't really have room to judge.

She killed the engine and climbed out. The lot was empty except for a gleaming red Vette and another black Escalade by the back door; the only sound the thrum of music bleeding through concrete block walls as she fought to smooth her windblown crop of raven waves into some form of submission and took the first step toward the building. On the other side of Shreveport, Sookie paled to white and clutched her head; the projector in her mind flipping at blinding speed. She tried not to scream, tried not to choke on the terror bubbling in her throat – then the strange nagging that had gnawed the edges of her mind for the past three days finally grabbed hold.

In less than a millisecond, the connection between two cousins became complete, staggering Sookie to the point of whimpering pain. It was the equivalent of taking a jolt of lightning to the brain – the power of royal fairy blood married to mental telepathy – searing a permanent mental conduit between two girls who had never met, but had so very much in common. Showing Sookie what was about to happen. She could see it plain as day in her mind. Literally feel him crawling through the images to get there. He was on his way now. Racing to get to that girl standing beside the big, black truck parked in the gravel . . .

_The gravel . . . _

Tires squealed against the pavement when Sookie floored it, scrambling to grab her phone and call Eric. There was a girl behind Fangtasia standing beside Logan's truck. And when that girl turned around, she was going to find hell in her face.

Only Grace dove straight into the flames when she shoved her keys in her cutoffs and the devil stepped straight out of the sky.

"Hello, little Laurel Grace."

_Oh, holy . . . living . . . hell. _

A clap of thunder shook her to the bone; that hauntingly foreign, familiar voice that hunted her in the dark crawling into her ears like a living thing. Grace threw a tortured look to the trees – praying she saw nothing. Praying harder she'd finally see him. See the beautiful blond fairy who brought the butterflies. Instead, a deep, chilling snarl made a sickening sweep across her skin, a burn of sapphire-blue flame that nearly ended her; every flicker so close she could smell the smoke as the grandfather who hunted her in her dreams threw a dead fairy guardian to the ground.

Bone crunched under his heel as he stomped the pale head deeper into the mud; raven hair shining like spun glass as bone beaded braids raked the rune scars carved across his chest. Even silhouetted against the overgrown edges of a bar's dirty back parking lot, Dermot Brigant reeked the arrogance of royalty; tall and proud as he adjusted the daggers tucked round a muscle-roped waist. He was the Dark Prince of Nárthea – the half human, half fairy son of the fey king, Niall. Leader of a ruthless band of exiles thrown out of the fey realm for trying to murder his way to the crown. And thanks to his misguided attempts to strengthen the species by mixing her grandmother's black magic with the naturally pure fairness of the fey? Poster child for the certifiably insane.

"Has been a very long time, little one," he smoldered, night air sweet as molasses rolling tangerines, sunshine and salt through his senses with every step he took closer – but smell did not matter. Nothing mattered save bronze flesh and raven hair that mirrored his own; mocking him with memories of an execrable bargain struck years ago. The same thing that had gnawed the edges of Sookie's mind for the past three days had dragged him from hiding, luring him back to Louisiana like a chum line promising sinful treats. He could not identify the call, but he had answered – and with every blink, he could see that leaving Sookie alive had been so very well worth it.

He rounded on Grace like a beast guarding its best morsel of food, head buzzing as he traced the scars where threads of fire had thrown themselves on her like a net of writhing serpents. He saw the two sets of wings tattooed on her forearm and knew who they were for - and then a small hand the exact same color as his own opened and hell itself spiraled up to swallow him. There - right there burned deep in the center of her palm was a perfect little "X": _Gebo, _the protective rune of balance and protection. Showing him why he'd thought his granddaughter dead. The witch had sacrificed herself, given every ounce of power to hide that child. Laurel Grace was not dead. Their grandchild was very much alive, and Sookie Stackhouse had just led him to her like a living divining rod.

Grace hoped it electrocuted the sorry son-of-a-bitch to death.

After twenty years of looking over her shoulder, there had been no way to know how she would feel if she ever saw him again, but the haze of terror had already numbed. All she felt was the fury. Choking her with the screech of a rusty hinge that had taken her entire life away. The expression on her grandmother's face as she'd pried the trapdoor open and threw her to the ground.

"Nana Mikita should've killed you while she had the fucking chance!" she spat before she could stop herself. "You were never strong enough to beat her, and neither was your damned daddy!"

A black laugh rumbled through his throat. "My father shall soon lay dead, while I stand stronger than anything alive! Invincible because Mikita _did _have the chance and _she chose me_!" he boasted as if to the entire world. "Traded every one of the secrets of her soul for the child she could not have alone."

Grace scoffed as if the thought sincerely made her want to puke. "Yeah, a child you let one of your men drag into a field under the full moon and spell her stupid so he could use her till she couldn't even move. A bastard who never came back. Never even bothered to tell his name to the girl he broke the soul of, or came back for the baby he left my grandmother there to raise."

Dermot cocked his head, silver-grey eyes swirling with the shadows and light that were never meant to be mixed, control now lost over both of them as the war they fought inside his body slowly tore his essence apart. "That is the way of the worlds, _little girl_. Survival is for the strongest. The smartest. The ones who know that even contracts written in blood can be broken . . . and allowing our offspring to live, was never part of the bargain."

"As testified to by a true coward," Grace threw straight at his face, trying to buy time as she snuck a glance toward the door, cussing herself for being early even as she prayed that giant vampire was gonna come busting out. But Dermot only threw his head back and laughed.

"Coward? Ah yes, that is what the others called me. The almighty council who stood round me in their damn half-circle, condemning me to exile." One blink and he snapped straight to the fey version of Satan, every memory sliding out of him like thick, black dirt. "The tear that slid down my father's cheek still makes me want to vomit. A king – weeping over the death of some worthless mortals, while I stood and faced them with the blood still hot on my tongue. Told them how my daughter's eyes slid shut when I snapped her neck. How the body of the mage I fucked to make her looked when her skin boiled off her bones. The screams I thought were yours as I burned you alive . . . but you were but the last ones on my list." Body trembling as if the memories alone were enough to return him to the frenzy, he clenched his fists and screamed. "I killed my twin that night. Killed Fintan's son, too. Will never stop killing until every descendant of Niall Brigant is dead and that crystal crown sits upon my head. I did this for them!" he roared. "To usher in a new age of power for the fey. To show them how powerful we could be!"

An unholy shriek tore from his lungs; the temperature searing up fifty degrees. His hate was so potent sap boiled in the roots beneath his feet. Once again, blue fire crawling across the ground, every ancient symbol he wore twisting like a living thing as he yanked an ensorcelled vampire from behind a mosquito-swarmed pole, like an attack dog on an invisible leash. Grace knew exactly what he intended, that the vamp would be doing his dirty work for him even before he began to yell. "You and that pretty little blond halfbreed Fintan always tried to hide are the only two left between me and everything I want," he spat to the howl of a rising wind. "And it is time for both of you to _die!_"

The air ripped to the crack of raw blue lightning and before the next beat of her heart, he'd turned the vampire loose. Grace dove for the front of her truck, foot on the roll bar as she scrambled onto the hood. Fuck the door. She could cram herself through the back glass and run the bastards over, but that vamp moved so fast she wasn't even aware of the motion; just felt the cold hand clamped around her ankle when he snatched her across the fancy "_Southern Comfort"_ script scrawled across the top of her windshield.

Her fall took off the side mirror with a resounding crack, body trapped between hell and a sheet of hard black metal as he slammed her back like a gnat. "Scream," he growled. "He wants to hear."

Grace would've cut her own throat before giving her grandfather the satisfaction, though deep down the rational part of her knew she didn't stand a chance against either of them. Not when she saw the fangs. When she had to choke back the sob that would shatter her sanity as death magic slithered up his nose and out of his eyes; thick tendrils of fey fire twining around his twitching limbs until the vampire's skin rippled like something inside was eager to escape – but if that asshole thought he'd found a willing victim, he damn well needed to think again.

A handful of hair clenched in his fist yanked her up till the tips of her toes barely brushed the ground, but she planted a fist in his face with a crack that echoed off the concrete blocks of Fangtasia's back wall; over twenty years of hate and fear feeding a balls-to-the-wall berserker rage as she took him up on the eating idea and sank her teeth into his chin. The vampire slapped her so hard her neck should've snapped, but she'd suffered too much shit in her lifetime for it to end like this. Sinfully pleasant vampire blood filled her mouth, and Grace swallowed without thinking; pure supernatural strength sliding down her throat like hot sweet syrup. The feeling of invincibility was instant, daring her to spit in his face as she shoved a hand down south.

Note to vampires everywhere: shriveled or standing, a dead man's dick is as vulnerable as any other's and Grace did her level best to tear his hard-on off, following a sadistic yank and twist, with a resounding knee to the nuts.

She was holding a handful of pubes when she hit the ground, and he staggered back with his eyes crossed.

"Fight all you want, bitch," he gasped as he clawed at his crotch. "He's gonna let me play till I've had my fill, then tear your soul out bone by bone and drink it while you die."

Grace gave back the look she saved for seagull shit on the deck rail, savoring the unexpected boost of vampire blood blowing through her veins as she planted a bare foot in his balls, then tore for the door like the hounds of hell were on her heels. She yelled for help with every step, still praying her money might buy a reprieve, but only a low, gritty growl of laughter came in answer. Shadows sucked the breath from her lungs. Flicks of fire bit at her skin. Gravel tearing her toes to the venom spilling from Dermot's lips as he watched from the branches of a sprawling old oak. _"Qualmë nottelmannar. Death is here for you, little Laurel Grace,"_ the ceaseless chant began to circle, round and round as the net of his hate sought to drag her down and drown her. Dragging her back until Grace begged for the first time in her life.

"_Please . . ." she whispered to the wind. "You never came back for me, but I believed in you. Please—please don't let him take me, too." _

Memories of butterflies and the sweet, sweet smell of wisteria carried the prayer away, even as the cold hand clamped on her shoulder jerked her around; animalistic power sinking fangs into her throat as the vamp ripped her shirt in half and drove her to the ground. The crazed creature ripped into her skin again and again, clawed hands stretching time like a torture rack as he shook her like a dog with a bone until her blood painted a sacred circle in the dirt to the low, black laughter crawling through her grandfather's throat.

Dermot's frozen heart registered nothing for the grandchild the brands on his chest had bought, yet memories of the murdered lover he had denied for two decades circled his mind until his own soul bowed to the one who once owned it. His cock swelled until it threatened to burst. His thighs sprawled. Trembling fingers ripped away the lacings. Her scent. Her smell. Every sin-wrapped slide of fingers against flesh threatened to drown him in Mikita's long forgotten groans; bark raking his back until blood dripped down on dead leaves in celebration of the life now soaking that very same ground – but Grace flatly refused to die.

Scarred palm waging war with the support of the two tiny angels' wings tattooed on her forearm, her desperate gaze locked on the moon, determined to hang on as she sent her silent prayers up over and over again. She raked furrows across his face. Ripped out hunks of his hair. Spat and bit and clawed and cussed until her fingers slid through a sick mix of their blood and dark smoke licked the edges of her vision, but even as Caleb drove those brutal fangs home one last time and he began dragging her toward the woods, every ounce of strength inside her swore someone could hear.

And Sookie Stackhouse did.

Death reached out with open arms as Dermot threw his head back and roared; hot streams of seed spewing from his flesh as he opened his soul, greedily waiting to harvest the twisted pain of his grandchild's death – but it would never come. Halfway across Shreveport, Sookie threw her car half up on a sidewalk, screaming to heaven and hell together as she offered every ounce of strength she had to a girl she did not even know - and together, they were heard. Trickles of moonlight swept together until a shaft of pure light beamed down in answer, then the precious spells that had hidden the great-grandchild of Niall Brigant for over twenty years gave way.

A shockwave of awareness blew through the very fabric of the fey as death itself was beat back. In the fairy realm of Nárthea, Niall was knocked to his knees. Sookie threw her head out the window to retch, a thousand frogs filling the night with their screams of approval as Dermot was ripped from his sadistic perch. He howled as he slammed to the ground, determined to see the both of them dead, but he would not win this war. A brilliant flash of silver sliced the night as an elven blade sank to the hilt in Caleb's skull. Fey warriors streamed from the shadows, then metal shuddered and Eric Northman exploded from the back door of Fangtasia, fists clenched and fangs bared. Cursing violently, Dermot faded away, determined this was only the beginning. Not the end.

But it would've been if Eric could've caught him.

Even the remote idea that a girl was being attacked in his own parking lot enraged him. One that was bringing money to meet him? About ten-thousand times more than that. Only he stepped outside, and stepped into a whole new world.

A smothering blanket of darkness hugged the ground, flashes of brilliant blue lightning burning his eyes as he tilted his head to listen. As Sookie had sobbed through the phone, a black Escalade stood behind the bar, but the unique decals showed it did not belong to Logan. The gentle scents of sun and sand and tropical tangerines floated through the open window, yet he saw no movement in sight - then his ears pricked to the sound of soft voices.

Swift and silent, Eric raced around the truck. Blood spread beneath a crumpled girl by the edge of the lot; yet that was the most plausible part of the picture. A man in sparkling scarlet robes hovered over her, waist-length hair the color of a raven's wing woven in braids like none he had ever seen. A crown sat atop his head, the voice enchantingly foreign though the lilted words came out in English.

"_Is not possible! One of us would have sensed her. I would have known that she survived!" _

"_There may be others. Are you certain it is the child?"_

"_It is Laurel Grace. I feel it in my soul."_

Eric reeled, unwilling to consider what the girl's offer had involved him in, but then a sudden surge of movement to the left showed him how involved he was already.

With a move as smooth as water flowing over a fall, a warrior with spun silver hair wrenched a thick serrated blade from a vampire's skull then skewered him in the throat, severing his head with one stroke. Eric skidded to a halt just in time for blood to spray across his chest, yet the executioner paid him no mind as he cast the body aside then inspected the dripping head. Eric easily recognized the victim: Caleb, a young male vampire turned only some six weeks earlier.

The Vampire Sheriff of Area 5 was instantly in the fey's face. "Who the fuck are you? And what gives you the right to enter my territory and kill someone under my command?"

The executioner hurled the head away, spiking it on a nearby branch without ever breaking eye contact. "Scary motherfucker" seemed the most appropriate answer as he met him nose-to-nose; his tall, lithe body armored in leather and velvet the likes of which Eric had not seen in centuries. The shimmering sword sheathed on his side spoke of an unseen world, the unflinching glint in his sapphire eyes making clear he'd gladly kill to defend it – but the thousand-year-old Viking vampire didn't give an inch.

"When I ask a question, I require a reply," Eric growled, muscles bulging beneath the now bloody black cotton of his shirt.

A second warrior stepped out of the air in answer, piercing sulfur eyes staring from a face of bleached skin beneath tightly braided hair. His every muscle flexed with predatory power, yet he exuded euphoria like he'd waltzed right out of a rainbow. Fucking fairies. Eric could taste them on his tongue. Feel their magic licking at his skin, trapping him like an animal in a cage. He automatically shifted so a tree protected his back, long fangs glistening over the curve of his lip and hands ready to rip bodies open steady at his sides as he prepared for the fight of his life.

An eerily familiar voice rang out. "Hold!"

The next second, the King of the Fey himself stood so close the warmth of his breath wafted right up Eric's nostrils. Niall Brigant could be one scary son of a bitch when he wanted to be. He eased an inch closer. He wanted to be. "I believe it is you who need tell me who dares kill someone under my command, for my own brother, Elrond, now kneels in filth trying to save my great-grandchild because one of your pestilent subordinates attacked her." The green of his eyes bled red. "And I do most certainly require a reply."

Eric's gut twisted. Until that moment, he was unaware Niall possessed either a brother or second great-grandchild and his focus flew to the girl on the ground; ten thousand reasons she would pay him for information suddenly boiled down to a single, breathing one. One that meant she was the same as Sookie. A cousin. Living, breathing, human kin.

If she survived.

Obviously a healer of some sort, Elrond now worked relentlessly to stem the flow of blood, soft white fire flying from his fingertips as the braid-headed warrior yanked pieces of linen straight out of the air to wrap round her wounds. The girl did not smell fairy, yet life left through a thousand tears; as if Caleb had tried to eat her alive. Eric did not want to consider what repercussions her death might bring, for even as her breathing steadied to the melodic refrain of long-dead language spilling from their lips, the grey pallor of her skin told him she was quickly passing beyond any form of assistance.

Oblivious to the threat of a war blade already wet with vampire blood, Eric hit his knees. "If you don't want this girl to die, you need my help." Yet, the moment he reached to touch her, shadows screamed in the trees.

"Was no accident what happened here," a gravely rasp noted. "The whole of this place burns with the taint of black magic."

Supernatural stares spread out in every direction.

"_Dermot."_

A feral rumble crept up Niall's throat, a soft sound barely audible to the ears, yet powerful enough to shift the roots of the ancient oaks as the fierce fire of his fëa broke through, melting his hair into a halo of molten gold until every crevice of the lot shone bright as noon sun. "Kalen, summon so many guards as you need – any of them. All of them! Find my son and bring him to me - alive!"

The fairy instantly shattered to shadow as Niall threw out his hands. Invisible trails of stinking obsidian slithered over everything in sight, hunting one another as they tried to flee the swarm of shimmering fireflies he sent sparkling across the sky, purifying the night with every dip and spin as the King of the Fey commanded his own child's spells to their death. The shadows cracked then skulked away; chaotic wisps of blue lightning bowing to a blanket of stars relieved to share their light as a beautiful full moon beamed in appreciation.

Eric wanted nothing more than a moment to digest even a fraction of what he was witnessing. Instead, he forced himself to remain steady and ripped open his wrist, dripping his healing blood into the worst of the wounds wrapping round Grace's mangled neck. "This will stop some of the bleeding," he quietly explained, "but if this girl doesn't take in fresh blood fast, she's dead."

"Never!" Niall snapped in disgust. "Sookie being bound to you is revolting enough, but no vampire will hold power over both of my great-grandchildren."

"My blood can save her life," Eric growled right back.

"For this child, it does nothing," Elrond quietly observed of wounds that had not altered at all - then understanding broke over his beautifully ageless face. He pushed Eric's arm aside. "The very fabric of a mage will fight anything that is not its own, yet Dermot walked in the light when her mother was made. At least that piece of her should accept the blood of a fey – yet mine is too powerful, as is Niall's." An impatient turn beckoned the warrior standing guard at his shoulder. "Haldir, come!"

Still scrambling to place the name "Dermot", Eric tripped over memories of the amnesia-inducing experience he'd suffered at the hands of a witch. He did not want to know how a fairy managed to impregnate one as vicious as a black magic mage without being turned into a toad, and the surprises just kept coming when that silver-haired warrior folded to one knee in the gravel at his side.

"You know how to do this, vampire?" Haldir asked.

"Yes, _fairy_," Eric quipped sarcastically. "Blood is everything to a vampire, so don't doubt I'll get it in her. You just need to cut yourself, and I'll take care of the rest." Yanking off his shirt to support her throat, Eric carefully tipped her chin back while Haldir reached to the pocket of his thick leather pants and slipped out a small blade.

"I am not a fairy," he offered as he sliced open the palm of his hand with no thought or hesitation. "I am Haldir of Lothlórien. And I am an elf."

Elf?

Eric's stunned gaze shot to the delicate maze of scars decorating the fey's temples, unable to believe what he'd just heard even as a pair of grey eyes identical to Elrond's opened, straining to see that they had come for her at last. Eric saw Sookie's fierce spirit burning up at him, fingers broken on a vampire's face clutching at his arm, demanding he hold her there less she slip away. "Grace, listen to me, girl," he instantly began to press, refusing to let Sookie lose anyone else as he forced her to focus. "You must drink this blood to live. You must swallow. Look – see? Your family is here. Fight for them!"

Instead, Grace looked straight up in his face. "_Fucking. Fairies."_

If it hadn't been so absolutely, utterly inappropriate - and quite possibly cost him his head - Eric would've laughed out loud right then and there. Instead, he settled for the comfortable assumption that Grace came after information on the _other _side of the family, and that she and Sookie were going to get along just great. Though he still had to stifle a smile when the slightest snicker slid out under Elrond's breath. Even Haldir shook his head. "Is always about the other island," he muttered under his breath.

But at the moment, it was all about the blood, and even through the blooming bruises and cloud of confusion, Grace's clamped jaw made clear that bleeding hand in her face was not the Corona with lime she'd expected to end this night with. Not a problem. As she said herself - there was always another option, and that elf got straight "A's" in the creativity department when he heaved her into a sitting position and caught her body in the crook of his arm.

Sucking in a mouthful of the blood now pouring from his palm, he closed those perfect rosy lips over her own, teasing them open with his tongue, then spit that blood right into her mouth. And hell, yes, she swallowed, because there wasn't a woman alive, dead, or anywhere in-between who was gonna say no to that shit.

Elrond quickly came to his feet, gesturing to Haldir as he did. "Lasto! Collect her," he announced firmly. "Such injuries cannot possibly be tended under such terrible conditions."

"Bring her inside," Eric offered with open admiration. "You can use my desk." So he could watch. And figure out what the fuck had happened here.

"No," the elf king instantly dismissed. "I have seen enough of the filth of this world. The child accompanies me to Imladris." He offered his brother a curt nod. "Join us in the royal suites when the situation is settled. Grace is safe in elven arms."

With a soft shift of air, the trio shattered to shadow, and Eric could do little more than stare. Few things surprised the ancient vampire, but those three people simply weren't there anymore. He took a step back. He had heard Sookie describe such actions by Niall before, but the fairies were always excruciatingly careful to hide their power from the vamps. Tonight's display was both astonishing and disturbing. An unease that increased when a glance back revealed Niall had cloaked their position. Fangtasia was no longer visible. Only swirls of strange purplish fog surrounded the expanse of shadowy gravel.

Eric prepared to defend himself, but Niall now spat orders to the braid-haired warrior he had earlier addressed as Kalen. Other identical ashen-faced creatures had joined him, and Eric watched them silently move about as he eavesdropped. Two of them emerged from the woods carrying what appeared to be a dead body, then quickly disappeared, while yet another pair silently and efficiently collected a spilled purse from the ground, then swiftly climbed into the black Escalade and drove it into the night. Eric noted the tag number, resisting the urge to send a 911 text to everyone inside for fear of starting a supernatural war, even as he eavesdropped on the end of their conversation.

"He has not answered my summons, so far more is amiss. Go to him, make him aware at once!"

The fairy lord turned on his heel, cornsilk hair framing a face painted in rage as one flick of a silken finger bowed a branch as thick as his wrist, shoving a garish, half-dissolved display of death in Eric's face. He plucked a shiny canine from the stinking mat of filth festering on the end, holding the two-inch fang up so Eric could see. "And you—you will locate the putrid excuse for a being responsible for creating this rogue monster and secure him for my punishment. Are we clear?"

A muscle ticked ominously in Niall's jaw, but Eric met his condemning stare without fear or regret, pulling his head up with a primal proudness that demanded respect. "If you want cooperation from the vampires in my area, tell me what happened here so I can see to Sookie's safety. Caleb wasn't in control of himself during that attack, and I won't see my people blamed for something _your son_ did to piss you off."

Niall seethed through a threatening step closer. "The only thing you need know is that if my great-grandchild dies, I will fill Fangtasia with so many fey you will swear Armageddon has arrived, so while you arrange a tribunal to give me proper penance and pray to your Pagan Gods for her safe recovery, not one whisper of this will cross your lips. The news of my second great-grandchild will be delivered to Sookie by me, and me alone, or I will personally cut your tongue out then seal you in a silver coffin and throw you in the ocean off Tír na nÓg for all eternity!"

Eric remained stone-faced right through the threat, silently cursing him with every irreverent malediction he could recall while simultaneously getting off on the fact that the damn fairy couldn't read his dead mind. He'd rather spend eternity roasting in the seventh ring of hell than submit to that man's pompous puckered ass, but he didn't survive a thousand years by being stupid. Dating Sookie was not enough to expunge his accountability so far as tonight was concerned, there was an entirely new species involved with these elves, and the unknown threat of this Dermot was an obvious danger to every vampire alive. He reined in his temper – a little. "There is nothing I won't do for Sookie or the cousin you've told her nothing about." He paused for the sarcasm to sink in; tonguing the fang Niall Brigant knew damn well had torn out more throats than he could count. "Now give me a damn explanation so I know how to protect my people."

For a moment, Niall almost looked amused. "The fey owe your kind nothing, Northman, so do not think I will utter one word toward saving a race that has devoted itself to the extermination of my own – though if the vampires believe they have succeeded, I strongly suggest they think again. The decline of the fey is nothing more than an intentionally spread illusion. In truth, we stand in allegiance with our elven cousins and our numbers are stronger than you can conceive." The fang bounced off a blood-soaked stone then shattered to dust, his restraint at not crushing Eric to death simply to hear the snapping sounds proof of the enormous power – and waning patience - he held. "Now you have but one task. It would behoove you to do it quickly." Breathing deep, he lifted his face to the moon. "Sookie will arrive in less than five minutes."

The fairy was gone before his voice had faded through the trees, but Eric cussed out loud and in a language that hadn't been heard in centuries. Dirt was impatiently brushed from his pants as the fog dissipated; gravel kicked around until the bloodstains were well covered. Heading to the Corvette, he jerked open the door and popped the trunk, knowing Bobby better have his dry cleaning inside if he wanted to live. Thankfully, his day man had done well, and Eric was redressed and running a brush through his hair when he stepped into the hall and yelled for Logan. His second in command could charm the knickers off a nun if needed, and he was the one Eric needed to validate this lie.

All six feet plus of smoking-hot blond appeared in an instant. "You rang?"

Eric didn't waste time on diplomacy. "A girl was attacked out back, and the fey are involved," he quietly relayed as they ignored the throngs of tourists gyrating on the dance floor. "One is dead, and an _elf_ cut that new vamp Caleb's head off like he enjoyed it. Elf," he repeated just for effect, "and he seemed like the friendly one, so you're with me the rest of the night. Sookie will be here any minute, and I want her gone as fast as possible. She sensed what was happening, called me and said it involved your truck. It didn't, but we will tell her some drunks got in a brawl that we ended; take her home, then figure out what the hell is going on. Got it?"

"Got it," the tall blond answered with ease, smiling at every lost woman who peeked their way while trying to find the bathroom.

"South Carolina tag BLUFIRE," Eric added as he stepped back out over the shattered remnants of the employee entrance. "Pass a note to Pam and tell her to start tracing it." He kicked a chunk of wood aside. "And to find somebody to fix this shit."

The words were barely out before Sookie's old Chevy roared into view. He caught her as she stumbled out. Shaking. Terrified and furious. Her beautiful blue eyes clouded with confusion as she struggled to look around. "Where is she? The girl? Where is the girl!"

Eric crushed her to his chest, arms of steel providing a safe haven even as the lies flowed freely from his lips. The woman he loved might not be able to hear his thoughts, but so much blood had been shared between them, she had become excellent at reading him all the same. Sookie knew when he was lying or upset. This would not be an easy task. "There was no girl, my lover," he hurriedly soothed. "It is obviously the headache you've suffered under for the past few days. Come. Let's get you inside. A drink will help."

Sookie slapped her hands on her hips and instantly started to argue, but Eric swept her off her feet, not wanting her exposed out in the open even for one split second as he effortlessly carried her into his office to sit her on the couch. Logan and Pam casually waited as ordered, the little blond vamp no more pleased at the lost payday than Eric, though the potential threat of a fairy war definitely diverted her attention.

"Bad night?" the dry little vamp drawled, as much a statement for herself as question for the trembling, pale-faced girl her master planned to claim as mate.

"For someone it was," Sookie snapped as she rounded on the boyfriend hovering over her like a protective grizzly bear. "Because I know what I saw was real – a girl, with dark hair being attacked behind this bar by his truck!"

She threw a finger at Logan, but Eric lied with unflappable ease. "My lover, it was nothing but a drunken argument that got out of hand. We handled it. Everything is fine."

No – not fine. Not at all. Not for the second time that night. First she brought beer to an invisible customer. A sexy, male customer who left her feeling like fire was gnawing her bones. Now she'd imagined a girl being attacked behind Fangtasia? "Something's not right tonight," she muttered almost to herself, yanking out the curl Dermot pushed behind her ear as if in validation as she began to twirl it around a finger. Her blue eyes slammed up into a pair two shades lighter, then narrowed suspiciously. "If nothing happened behind this bar, why's the back door torn out? Because ya'll were bored?"

"My bad," Logan claimed in his odd Texanized Germanic accent, readily stepping in to do his share of the dirty work. "There was a cute little thing out back talking with a group of the Air Force lads, but they wanted more than she was willing to give. I felt it necessary to do my chivalrous duty for the lass, and with a bit of help from Eric, we sent them along their way. Only penance is a few fingerprints and lipstick to scrub off the poor steed."

He backed it up with a sultry smile, champagne eyes bubbling with sincerity as he settled his square jaw deep in his hand; forearm intentionally turned toward her to flaunt the sacred paladin mark branded there. Sookie couldn't help but laugh at the sexy vampire. Logan had been a European knight before being turned in the early 1500's, and a knight would never lie - would he?

Hell yes, he would, and Eric had to lean over and pretend to pick something off the floor to keep from smiling when Pam rolled her eyes and snorted.

"I don't care if the next bunch throws an orgy on the hood, you will not steal another one of my waitresses to wash that gas-guzzling pussy patrol of an Escalade!" she snapped, adjusting her immaculate pink tweed blazer as she jerked to her feet. "I wouldn't advise the chivalrous man to forge any more of their damn timecards either."

Logan clutched his heart. "Oh, Pam, you wound me. And to think, I was going to invite you and Eric to come to the car wash so we could spray each other, then run naked through the woods to dry off."

Sookie snickered softly, knowing the trio had done that more than a few times as Eric added a smug smile - albeit for a very different reason. Logan just saved his ass by playing his girlfriend to perfection. He owed the man. Pam didn't, and the second he popped her on the behind with that newspaper, Logan had fangs in his face.

"One of these days, you Austrian ass!"

Logan smoked back a smile that could warm a room. "Oh, I do hope so," he smoldered as he handed her the paper. "Until then, if I promise not to bother the waitresses tonight, will you find the missing words for me? You're better at crosswords than I am."

"I hope you get briars in your dick."

She snatched the crossword from his hand and stalked from the room as Sookie turned her exhausted attentions back on Eric. "Are ya'll really going for a run? I'd feel better if you came to the house, at least for a while."

"I'll do better than that. Logan and I will take you home and be sure you're tucked in safe and sound." He pulled her to her feet. "Someone will bring your car home later tonight."

"Don't worry, Sook. I'll keep him out of trouble," Logan chimed in. "It's just that the moon is full and the woods will be crawling tonight."

_Yes - with something that needs to die_, Eric thought as he protectively clutched the woman he soon intended to marry. Sookie was obviously strained to her limits, but to his relief, sighed and finally shook her head.

"Alright, ya'll win. My head's pounding and I just want to go to bed, but just tonight on the running through the woods. Not tomorrow. Sometimes I want Eric to myself."

"I shall have him at your beck and call come sundown, My Lady," Logan teased, passing Eric a pointed glance. "And to show my sincerity, I'll even drive you home. It'll give you two lovebirds a chance to smooch on the way."

The two powerful vampires escorted her out, with Sookie safely sandwiched between them. Eric would coddle her as much as needed to make this lie stick, but this was indeed only the beginning. He was going to take a long look around that white farmhouse. Then they were going on the hunt.

**~O~*~O~*~O~*~O~*~O~*~O~~O~*~O~*~O~*~O~*~O~*~O~**

**My very deepest thanks to IGNOBLEBARD for offering a hand up on this chapter when it was most desperately needed.**


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